Loving a Good Mystery

Simple enough, how pleasure hangs upon my lover’s lips

How tribulations drift away in the light that shadows her curves

The tenor to which she paints in watercolor

her imagery of our world

Some contend it is in the way a lover moves

her prowl-ness with infatuation

A bell that cannot be un-rung

Her voice that cannot help but be heard

Her cherished adages underlined and dedicated to memory

Some will say…herein lay a lover’s mystery


Used Thoughts

I wet my appetite with the languish of…

old roads,

abandoned homes

and stories untold.

Hell bent on mysticism from possibilities existence.

Firm, are my devotion to lines in the snow.

And, where could they perchance…go.

Scars in the skin of life.

That never remain in the same path twice.

Pursuing the Spirit

There in the broken lot.

Hunched, but, young.

A walking prosthetic.

Beautiful, nonetheless.

In comparison,

my renewal…nothing short of pathetic.

As I began to surmise, down a cobbled street.

The reckoning…would not shake me free.

Would I remain a pursuer of spirituality?

With the mystery of the mystics…forever ahead of me!


Metallic After Midnight

Innocent bystanders.

Cordial and unlucky.

Awaiting with causality toward yesterday.

Upholding many hours past midnight.

An ill lit embankment to instill a traveler’s fright.


No one is born unto a shift by the graveyard.

Poetically speaking, the role of walking dead no more different from…

portraying a fly at the bar.

A limp for the narrow figures that wander far.


The appearance of black opiates dance like sugar cane in a diluted mind.

Visions of unassuming white vans seem to be…just waiting on a friend.

In the ominous role of third shift…the rules can bend.


Metallic taste absolves in the mouth and soul.

Fear is lessened.

A lack of care for the person…not quite whole.

No mention made of ‘being young or growing old.’


Save for Rainy Days


“Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.”   ##Poe





grabbed by the tail…

there is an aura of frail.

How can one attend to vulnerability?

With anger on a pallet.

In the mist…

a waif.

Wanting a morsel of dignity.

While she cries through the brume.

She, alone, keeps the mystery.

Further off the thwarted passage.

Another bough breaks.

Earlier a broken shaft.


a poetic forgotten,

wooden stake.

Scarred by death.

The mysterious waif,


Surrounds herself in a shroud of…


What if?


Nothing so bare,

as an,

open hand,

closed mind

or a begrudging first.

Always the healer.

She has traveled so long.

Just to stay so far away.

Save for rainy days.

Save for rainy days.


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